


Little Enough Mercy

by Laylah



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Prison, Unhealthy Relationships, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-14
Updated: 2007-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:36:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There’s a certain dramatic flair to all this, don’t you think?” Kimberly says, leaning on the door of the cell, talking through the little slitted window. “The unexpected reversal of fortune. The change from war hero to war criminal.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Enough Mercy

“There’s a certain dramatic flair to all this, don’t you think?” Kimberly says, leaning on the door of the cell, talking through the little slitted window. “The unexpected reversal of fortune. The change from war hero to war criminal.” There’s no answer from the other side. He didn’t really expect one. “Comrades separated by fate, their destinies exchanged by actions neither of them could foresee.”

He reaches into the pocket of his uniform, pulls out a ring of dull brass keys. “Of course, if this were theater, you’d be in my old cell, wouldn’t you? But I suppose that was just too much to hope for.” He fits a key into the lock and turns it, and the hollow click of the cell unlocking still gives him shivers, even now.

Mustang blinks at the light, flinching. He’s used to the dimness of the cell already, it looks like. He watches with flat, shuttered eyes as Kimberly lets himself in, and there’s an ugly blotch of purple high on his cheekbone that Kimberly recognizes all too clearly from resisting arrest himself.

Stepping into the cell is harder than Kimberly expects it to be. The old claustrophobia comes back, the screaming need to be _anywhere but here_ , and only the fact that he has both the key in his pocket and Mustang’s body to use as fuel in an emergency makes it possible for him to pull the iron door closed behind him.

“Not going to say hello?” Kimberly asks to cover the hesitation. “Not going to ask how I’ve been?”

“I don’t care how you’ve been,” Mustang says, looking at the wall. “Say your piece and leave. The guards patrol regularly.”

“Every nine hundred heartbeats, more or less,” Kimberly nods. He remembers. “Only not today.” That makes Mustang look up at him in alarm, and he smiles. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t kill anyone. Archer arranged things for me, so I could visit an old friend in peace.”

Most of what shows on Mustang’s face is anger, but Kimberly thinks a little of it might be fear. “Archer—”

“Archer understands me,” Kimberly says contentedly. “He knows how to bargain. And he hates you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Mustang growls. He stands up as Kimberly closes the distance between them, raising his shackled hands as if he can ward Kimberly off that way.

Kimberly grabs hold of the shackle board and yanks it downward, throwing Mustang off-balance. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, bearing down so the board is pressed all the way to the floor. There’s an eye bolt set in the stone, a match for the one on the bottom of the shackle board—a means of punishing difficult prisoners, or restraining them when the cell needs to be cleaned. Kimberly slips a lock through the bolts and smiles at the click as it catches. “Any messages I should give him for you?”

“No,” Mustang says. He shifts, pulling on the shackles, like he’s trying to find some dignified position in which to sit. There isn’t one, Kimberly knows: he can crouch, or kneel, or lie down in a few positions, and depending on the angle of his arms he might be able to brace his hands against the floor. But his options are pretty limited.

Kimberly kneels beside him and runs a hand down his back. “I’m disappointed, you know,” he says softly. “Seven years, I sat in a cell like this, and you didn’t visit even once.”

“You were supposed to be dead, Kimberly,” Mustang says.

Kimberly shakes his head, reaching up under Mustang’s prison-issue shirt. “Would it have changed anything if I hadn’t been?” Mustang refuses to answer, just sitting there, not flinching at his touch. “I don’t think it would have. You turned on me, you traitor.”

 _That_ makes Mustang react, makes him pull away violently, glaring at Kimberly over his shoulder. “ _Me_?” he says. “Kimberly, you killed children! You killed our own troops!”

“But I never betrayed you,” Kimberly says, reaching for Mustang again. “You were mine, I was yours, that didn’t change. Besides.” He can feel the hard smooth curves of ribs under his fingers. “You’ve killed our own troops now, too. I heard about your raid on the Fuhrer’s house.”

“You don’t understand,” Mustang says. Kimberly tugs at his hips, pulls him up on all fours. “He’s a monster.”

Kimberly pulls the drawstring of Mustang’s pants. Mustang tries to shift away; Kimberly doesn’t let him. “He’s a family man with a young son who was badly injured by one of your fires. The doctors say the kid will never fully recover. Something about scorched lungs.” Mustang goes limp, head bowing, and Kimberly tugs his pants down over his hips. “There you go. Why is this always about punishment with you?”

Mustang shudders as Kimberly brushes the crack of his ass with oiled fingers. “It isn’t,” he says. “I just didn’t want you.” But he spreads his legs to make it easier when Kimberly starts opening him up.

“You came to me,” Kimberly whispers. He pushes deep, and Mustang’s ass is hot and clutching around his fingers, the tissue so delicate and yielding it makes him ache. “At least half the time, you came to me.”

“I wanted to, hh, talk,” Mustang protests. His thighs tremble. “I wanted a friend.”

Kimberly shakes his head. “You’re lying.” He unbuttons his trousers with his free hand, stroking his cock. “We never had anything to talk about.” He pulls free of Mustang’s ass and slicks his cock, lines up, pushes—

And Mustang makes a noise, a hiss of frustration or maybe pain or maybe just recognition. “That’s not, ah, not true. Or it, hh—didn’t have to be.”

“You never stopped me,” Kimberly says, thrusting slow and steady. This feels strange, unnatural, like different parts of his life colliding in a dream. Like the dreams he had the first year in prison, where Mustang would be one of his schoolmates or at boot camp with him or guarding his cell. “You never stopped me. You wanted it, too.”

“If you say so,” Mustang says. He sounds tired, resigned, like he’s already used up his fight on the courts, the guards, the constant struggle to find the strength and desire to go on down here.

Kimberly has to stop thinking, has to close his eyes and just feel: he has Mustang here again, at last, surrendering to him like they never stopped, panting softly and almost, maybe, pushing back to meet him. It’s what he remembers, what he missed, what he wanted.

Old habit keeps him silent when he comes, makes him swallow the noise he might have made as if they’re still in a tent at the godforsaken edge of nowhere, trying to keep any of their fellow soldiers from discovering them.

“Get what you came for?” Mustang asks when Kimberly’s been still for a few moments.

“Some of it,” Kimberly says. He pulls out; Mustang is shaking, the bone-deep shivers that come from nerves and exertion. “Here.” Kimberly pushes him down, rolls him onto his back. It’s awkward, with Mustang’s hands still shackled to the floor, pulling his arms across his body, but it’ll do.

“What are you doing?” Mustang asks, sounding panicked, when Kimberly leans down. Kimberly doesn’t bother to answer that, just takes Mustang’s half-hard cock in his mouth. “Stop it,” Mustang says, struggling. “Kimberly, stop.”

Kimberly holds him down with both hands on his hips and looks up. “No,” he says. “You’ll get little enough mercy in prison. Stop fighting pleasure, already.”

“I don’t want it to be you,” Mustang says as Kimberly licks at him delicately.

“You’re not going to get many offers in here,” Kimberly says. “I’m doing you a favor.” Mustang doesn’t protest when Kimberly leans back down and starts sucking again.

Even prison-filthy and malnourished, he tastes good. Kimberly closes his eyes so he can concentrate and tries to get into a rhythm. It doesn’t help that Mustang keeps moving, little jerky hip motions like he’s afraid to really thrust.

Kimberly chokes once, and Mustang shivers, moans at the convulsion of his throat, sounding half aroused and half horrified. Kimberly strokes his hip fondly. Trust Mustang to keep denying it when they both know what he wants, and how similar they are. Kimberly pushes his fingers back up Mustang’s ass, and Mustang makes another sound, lower, choked, almost a sob.

One more good push is all it’s going to take. Kimberly chokes himself again, eyes squeezed shut against the reflexive tears, and feels Mustang’s ass clench just a second before he tastes bitter heat.

He sits up. Mustang is gasping for breath, not looking at him. “You’re not going to thank me, are you?” That’s nothing new.

“It would only encourage you,” Mustang says. Kimberly can’t tell how sarcastic that’s supposed to sound.

“Treason’s a capital offense, you know,” Kimberly says as he wipes his hand on Mustang’s pant leg and reaches down to tuck himself back into his trousers. “I expect we’ll be hearing about your execution in another month or two.”

Mustang hisses, looks away as Kimberly pulls his pants back up for him and re-ties the drawstring. “Comforting to the last, Kimberly.”

Kimberly brushes dirty hair off Mustang’s forehead, leans in to kiss him gently. “Maybe your execution will be like mine,” he says. He unhooks the shackles from the floor. “I’ll come looking for you. I promise.”

He thinks he can hear Mustang mutter something as leaves, but he doesn’t ask for it to be repeated, just makes sure the door locks behind him. Mustang never says what he wants to hear.


End file.
